


Even Though You Lost (You Gave Everything You Had)

by GoldenDaydreams



Series: Bless My Darkness (Bless My Light) [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angel!Connor, Angel!Nines, Gen, M/M, Murdered Child, Pre-Slash, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, aftermath of case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Gavin spirals after a difficult case and finds out the price of a miracle.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Series: Bless My Darkness (Bless My Light) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718170
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	Even Though You Lost (You Gave Everything You Had)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a bit of a mix up of the lyrics of Plastic Knifes- Indiana Drones

The whiskey burned all the way down. Every hit of the bass vibrated through his entire being, and even with his back against one of the speakers the sound couldn’t silence the spiraling thoughts. 

Bodies brushed against him, or he against them as he moved through the crowd, all sweat and shouting. Spilled drinks made his shoes stick to the floor. The Underground wasn’t the kind of place that gave a shit if you could still walk at the end of the night as long as you kept buying drinks—in fact that was why Gavin had chosen the establishment. Another drink in hand, swallowed back, the glass hit the counter but Gavin couldn’t hear the ‘clang’ over the drums. 

He passed a merch table, and a bouncer on his way to the door. The air cooler as he stepped out, but not enough to brush off the fog over his mind. As the door shut with a heavy slam, the music cut off, and he was left with the noises of the city: car horns, distant sirens, shouting, and laughter. 

Never thought he’d deal with his emotions by drowning them in alcohol, but he hadn’t been able to take the images anymore. His fingers shook as he pulled out the cigarettes he’d purchased on his way to the venue. After all, if he was going to spiral into his own personal bullshit, might as well go all in, right? He managed to keep the lighter steady enough to light the end, and sucked in the nicotine like he’d been underwater too long, and finally broke the surface. It coated his tongue, burned his lungs, and made him feel worse. There went two and a half years of progress. 

Leaning against a light post, he watched the traffic go by while he inhaled the toxins, and tried to exhale all the fucking feelings still in his chest. 

“Where the fuck are you?” Gavin let the cigarette drop, and stubbed it out with his shoe. He had half the mind to walk into traffic. “You fucker!” He shouted to the sky. “Come down here you fucking prick!” 

He noticed a man in a fashionable blazer on the other side of the street tucking his girlfriend under his arm, glaring at Gavin, and Gavin had half the mind to shout _‘I’m not crazy, I’m just trying to talk to an angel!’_ However, that probably wouldn’t convince anyone of his ‘not crazy’ status. 

Stumbling his way down the street, he kept his eyes open for a cab. A homeless man sat in the doorway of an empty building, newspapers plastered over the windows. Gavin had three singles in his pocket, tucked them into the cup of the sleeping man, and continued on his way. 

“Have I earned an audience now?” Gavin asked the sky, and got nothing in return. 

The red traffic light had traffic stopped. Brake lights, brake lights, brake lights, red, red, red. Blood. He shut his eyes. The tacky feel of his fingers touching each other wasn’t real, there was no blood on his hands, no blood under his fingernails, none of that _soft, wet, hot_ of body parts he shouldn’t have been able to touch—what kind of fucker hurts kids, takes a knife to them, wants to see their insides—Gavin bends and vomits, his hand reaching blindly to balance himself on the light pole. 

Where was that fucking angel then? 

Where was he when that little boy was taken from his family? 

Where was that feathery fuck when the boy was all drugged up so he wouldn’t be able to move as the knife was dragged over his skin—

A small group of women walked by giving him a wide berth, one of them had pepper spray in hand, another said something but Gavin only caught the ‘fucking drunk’ part. 

Chasing the taste from his mouth with a cigarette wasn’t among his best ideas, but it was the only one he had. Wandered with it, eyed the open fast food joint but was out of cash, and didn’t want to put it on his card. 

He finally caught a cab, and had enough alcohol and anger in his system to rattle off Hank’s address. The driver briefly tried to engage in small talk, but gave up with Gavin gave him nothing. 

Staring out the window, he remembered the strange day at Hank’s, somehow having been wrangled into picking Cole up from a sleepover at a friend’s house, and sticking with him until Hank returned home. Connor—still healing a month later from a wound in his wing had been watching Animal Planet on the TV, but joined them in the kitchen while Gavin started putting together a snack—if he somehow got stuck babysitting, Hank would pay him in food. 

“Do you have a job? Like are you a teacher or a doctor?” Cole had asked Connor while sitting at the kitchen table, tongue out, crayon in hand, working on a page in the colouring book. 

“In a sense I have a job,” Connor had answered in that airy way he had. “My specialty is guiding and healing animals.”

Cole had perked up. “Like a vet!” 

Gavin recalled Connor’s serene smile. “I suppose. My brother protects children.” 

“What’s his name?” Gavin had asked since it had been driving him nuts for over a year. 

The sound Connor made shook the windows and made his insides feel like they’d been liquefied for a second. 

“Forget I asked,” Gavin said. 

“Sorry, what?” The driver perked up. 

They were in Hank’s neighbourhood, rain pelting on the window. “Here’s fine.”

“I can drive the rest—”

“Here is fine,” Gavin snapped.

The rain chilled his skin as he staggered down the street. A drop of rain hit the back of his neck, snuck under the collar of his shirt—A drop of water from the leaky pipe in the basement hit the back of his neck, blood on his hand _soft, wet, hot_ — 

He only paused on the porch because Cole—but it was Wednesday and Hank only had alternating weekend custody at the moment. Fuck Hank. Fuck Connor. And fuck that asshole with the unpronounceable name. His fist hit the door over and over and over until he saw lights turn on, and still he hit the door until it swung open. 

Hank was just in boxers and a t-shirt. Connor was in the doorway of the kitchen, undisturbed by the pounding on the door like he’d known who was on the other side. Hell, maybe he did. 

“Where was he?” Gavin snarled. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Reed!” Hank grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him inside. “Want to wake the entire neighbourhood?”

Gavin didn’t care, shoving past Hank, drunk enough that survival instinct didn’t kick in when he grabbed hold of the front of Connor’s shirt and shoved him back against the wall, holding him there. “Where was he?” he shouted in Connor’s face, nose to nose. 

His collar suddenly choked him and he was yanked back a few steps, drunkenly falling over his own feet, landing hard on the floor. “He’s supposed to protect kids right?” He pushed up to his knees. “Where was he when that boy was murdered? Huh? Why didn’t he save him?” 

Connor’s upper lip curled as he glared down at Gavin. “How dare you. A human is cruel and everyone looks to angels to stop it, to fix it.” Connor crouched down, his injured wing still dragging along the floor. His grip on Gavin’s chin was tight enough to hurt, forcing him to look into the burning gold of Connor’s eyes. “You humans ask for miracles, but no one ever asks what they cost! What my brother has given up for you, what I gave up for Co-” Connor’s eyes lose their glow, and he’s frozen, even in Gavin’s state, he can tell Connor’s let something slip he hadn’t meant to. 

“Connor… finish that sentence,” Hank said, soft and quiet, the words hanging in the tension. 

Gavin felt sick, his slowed mind fitting together pieces of the puzzle he’d been working on for over a year. 

The angel stood, looked anywhere but Hank. “I was there. The night of your accident.” 

Gavin used the back of the couch to pull himself back to his feet. Hank looked pale, Connor stared down at his bare feet on the wood floor. 

“I saw you,” Hank muttered. “It was you-why didn’t you—”

“Help? I did. My specialty is animals, but I was there, and I couldn’t just-I’m not supposed to-I can heal at a distance, animals frequently have teeth and are not always understanding or accepting of celestial beings. So, I did what I could.” He finally looked over at Hank. “Cole was going to die, so I gave him a miracle. We never know what it is we will lose when it happens. After, I didn’t even notice, thought for some reason I hadn’t lost a thing.” He glanced at his wounded wing, fingers reaching to caress the bandaged section. “My healing. I lost my advanced healing.” 

Gavin touched his own cheek, fingertips grazing the golden mark left behind from his angel healing him after being shot. “He lost his voice.” 

Connor sighed. “We only have so much to lose, and we never know if the next miracle will take our lives. It’s a gamble every single time. We can’t save everyone, Gavin. We just can’t.” 

He’d taken a cab home after that, leaving Hank and Connor to a conversation he didn’t want to be present for. While he wanted sleep, he showered, chasing the chill from his wet clothes. After brushing his teeth, and getting into some warm sweatpants and a comfortable hoodie, he curled up in bed. He wished for rest, and instead got nightmares mocking him for his inadequacy, his failures. 

The sun had barely risen when he awoke with a raging headache that made him want to stay curled up in the dark, but the nightmares didn’t make him want to sleep anymore. 

Coffee. Maybe the caffeine would help the pounding in his head. He made a quick detour to the bathroom to relieve himself. The image in the mirror was a brutally honest look into how he spent his last night; his hair had dried at an awkward angle, the dark circles under his eyes looked almost like bruises, the bags under his eyes were pronounced and made him look like he hadn’t slept in three weeks, fingertip shaped bruises around his jaw, lips chapped, skin a little paler as his stomach churned, the scar on his nose standing out all the more. He splashed some water on his face before leaving the bathroom, more awake but not any better. 

The motions were automatic, he filled the coffee maker with water, and fresh ground coffee. He didn’t think he could stomach much, and didn’t bother with his usual morning omelet, but grabbed a box of crackers, and munched on them while the scent of coffee filled his tiny kitchen. 

The night before was fragments of loud music, shouting in the streets, anger, overwhelming sadness, somehow he made it to Hank’s, Connor’s bruising grip, and glowing eyes. Most importantly what his angel had given up for him. His voice. Gavin wasn’t sure what to do with that information—his own parents hadn’t paid him much mind, an accident of two people who hadn’t wanted kids, but societal pressures kept them a ‘family.’ Here, an angel had chosen him, chosen to bring him back from the brink of death, to heal him. 

He brushed his fingers along his jaw where he knew the soft golden mark was branded upon his skin. 

The coffee maker beeped, and he poured himself a mug. With the box of crackers tucked under his arm he headed to his balcony only to stop in the middle of his living room, nearly losing his grip on his mug. 

An angel sat on the railing. The… his angel. 

Without the alcohol, he still to push through the instinctive fight or flight response, and move toward the very dangerous being. He stepped outside, and stared for a moment. “Coffee or crackers? I can get another mug.” 

The angel tilted his head a little. He slipped down from his perch, feet bare on the balcony. He took the mug carefully with both hands. Gavin motioned to the little patio set, and left the crackers on the table. “I’ll be back.” He paused in the doorway as the angel was turning the chair around. “Do you want cream or sugar.” 

The angel shrugged, his wings angled away from his body, crossing at the ends but still blocking a good deal of his balcony with the enormity of his wingspan. 

“I’ll… bring it out,” Gavin decided, stepping back inside. The headache was still making his temples throb, but he didn’t think an angel was the type of company you could just tell to fuck off. Especially after he’d learned just what had been sacrificed so he could keep living. 

He managed to carry the sugar dish, creamer tucked under his arm, coffee mug in other hand, and still get the door open, and shut on his own. The spoon in the sugar dish clattered as it was set down, the creamer had chilled him even through his sweater. Gavin finally sat, and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, and the angel mirrored him. 

“I saw Connor last night, is that why you’re here?” 

The angel nodded. 

“Can you hear me, when I call out for you?” 

The angel frowned, looked into his coffee, and then raised a hand palm down, rocking it back and forth. 

“You kind of can?” A frown and tapped on Gavin’s watch. “If you’re watching?” A head shake. “Time…sometimes can?” A nod. “Can you tell when I’m in danger?” Another rocking motion of his hand, and then so fast Gavin didn’t have time to flinch, the hand was gentle and warm on his face, fingers conforming to the angel mark. “Because of the mark, you can tell when I’m in danger… sometimes.” 

He opened his mouth, and then frowned. 

“Connor told me that you lost your voice when you performed the miracle to save me.” 

A thumb brushed along the glittering stubble he needed to shave before the hand was gone. The angel deeply inhaled, and exhaled on a long sigh. He took a sip of the coffee, his face pinching with distaste, and immediately reached for the sugar dish. 

It took Gavin a second to realize his headache was gone. Of course, his angel had healed him again. “Thank you.” 

The way the angel smiled made Gavin fear being thrown into cardiac arrest. The angel took another sip of coffee, still made a face about it, and started dumping more sugar in, then added some cream. 

“That’s not even going to be coffee soon.” Gavin couldn’t help but smile a little. "I think I have some orange juice, would you like that better?” 

The angel nodded. Gavin grabbed himself a handful of crackers from the box to munch on while he went back inside. He grabbed a glass, poured the rest of the orange juice he had into it, and walked back outside. 

The not quite coffee sat to the side, and the angel took the orange juice with that soft smile that gave Gavin’s heart an arrhythmia. 

“You know, you need a name—one that I can pronounce,” Gavin said, “I mean, you’re going to keep coming around, aren’t you?”

The angel shrugged, and pointed at Gavin. 

“Me?”

The angel pointed up then at Gavin. 

“Up… me… up to me!” 

The angel nodded. 

Gavin gently tapped his mug against the glass of orange juice. “I guess I don’t mind your company. Even if you’re terrifying. You know that right, how intimidating you are?” 

The angel folded his arms on the back of the chair and rested his chin on them, looking rather pitiful, big blue eyes staring. 

“Quit pouting, you baby,” Gavin said, staring into his coffee, unable to take the stare. “You can visit whenever.”

The angel’s wings lost some of their rigidness, draping along the balcony, and Gavin wished he’d swept it sometime in the past year.

“I’m serious though, I need something to call you.” He sipped his coffee, and set it back down. “How about… I don’t know, Zach?” 

The angel raised a brow, and then shook his head. 

“No, huh?” Gavin sipped his coffee a minute. “Mark?”

Another head shake. 

“Fluffy?” Gavin asked with a smirk.

A stop sign temporarily blinded him. “Okay, okay! Not going to name you like a cat, got it.” 

The angel finished off his orange juice, and stood awkwardly, considering how cramped his wings were in on the small balcony, trying to get them straightened, pinned against his back again. 

“Are you leaving?” 

The angel nodded. 

“Is it because I called you Fluffy?”

The angel looked heavenward but shook his head. He gently touched Gavin’s face, over his mark, he felt happy, and safe in a way that had his muscles relaxing, but he grabbed the angel’s wrist. “Did Connor tell you what I’d yelled at him about?” 

The angel nodded, frozen in place. 

He thought about how the angel had sacrificed something of his own to save Gavin’s life. A sacrifice that could have been his last. The angel could only do so much, he knew that now. He couldn’t have saved that little boy. Neither of them could.

“You can’t save everyone,” Gavin said. 

The angel sighed and shook his head. 

“Why did you save me?” Gavin had asked before, but this time he thought he had a bit of a better understanding. 

Like before the angel laid his hand over Gavin’s chest. 

“Because I’m a cop?” A shake of his head. “Because I could save more people alive than dead?” A pause, like he was trying to decide if that was close enough. Another image this time the heart was gold. “Golden heart—Heart of gold, me? No.” 

Gavin felt that pride, joy, elation that left him weak. The angel hedged his bets and saved Gavin to protect others, to save more where he couldn’t, and he was _proud_ of Gavin. 

The wings were soft when he was surrounded by them. Wrapped up in the angel’s arms when his knees when weak with the emotions that weren’t his flooding his body. 

He woke in his bed, wondered if it was a dream, but there was a sticky note on his bedside table that just said ‘sorry.’ He peeled the note off, looked at the gentle curves and hard lines of the letters. “So you can write English you son of a bitch.” 

He felt a little dizzy, whatever the angel had done left him feeling energized and happy—the ‘sorry’ made it seem like overwhelming him into unconsciousness had been an accident. He stood with the intention of tossing the one word note into the bin, but ended up tucking it into the drawer of his nightstand. 

No one ever had to know. 


End file.
